


While the Devil Wants to Fuck Me in the Back of His Car

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Darkfic, F/M, M/M, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Bob's "nice guy" act is exactly that. An act.





	While the Devil Wants to Fuck Me in the Back of His Car

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark. This isn't a smutfic okay, this is just a darkfic.

Deception is a skill that Bob Newby has had years to perfect. Not that he had ever needed much practice with the particular nuances of such an action, it has been more habit than lesson as far back as he can remember. A trait he picked up and expanded upon from a very young age.

What child does not deceive a guardian at one point in their life?

Oh, adults will tell you otherwise. Something about the magical age of eighteen seems to implant permanent rose-colored contacts into the pupils of most human beings. Children become the very essence of purity and innocence, untouched, incapable of doing wrong.

As if they are not as flawed and sinful as any other human on the earth.

They are not Eve. They have tasted the forbidden fruit and their nakedness is as debased and delicious as any adult's.

A child may start small with their own sins: pretending to sleep when a parent checks in on them, their long eyelashes fluttering conspicuously, thrown open seconds after their bedroom door clicks shut. Ruse successfully carried out, they can now secretly sit up long into the night, perhaps reading comic books beneath their covers with the help of a flashlight. Or maybe the little imp will lie about finishing his peas as he slip them into a napkin on his lap. But then they're lying about playing doctor with the girl next door, or the fact they were the ones who accidentally pulled off their pet gerbil's tail.

Bob did much worse than any of those things as a child, but nobody knows about those things.

And if anybody had somehow found out? And had tried to tell on him? Who would believe them? Bobby? The cute, pudgy little kid who stammered and blushed so easily?

Blushing, unlike deception, was a skill that Bob had worked diligently on acquiring. He had found the best way to turn his skin red was to simply think of something extremely arousing. Like when he had bashed in the skull of Suzy Randall's pet miniature poodle. And how she had cried several hours later when she had found the dog still convulsing in her backyard.

That had been Bob's first orgasm. At the age of nine he hadn't exactly been ignorant in the ways of sex, but he also wasn't exactly sure why her wretched wailing had caused a hardening in his pants. He had crouched hidden behind the lilac bushes for a long time afterwards, his pants still down around his thighs, sweat pooling in the creases of his knees.

He had been too young to ejaculate at that age, but he knew what he had done. He just had no recollection of ever reading about such a form of foreplay. Why had the sounds of preadolescence female anguish been so arousing?

Later, he had gone to Suzy, playing the sweet boy next door, and helped her bury her dog. She let him hold her hand for a few weeks after and he found himself trying to get glimpses of her panties whenever she bent over to pick something up in her little sundresses. He wanted to see what it looked like for real, not just in the books. More importantly, he wanted to see if she was growing hair yet.

Bob doesn't like hair. This is something he figured out in high school. Dates did not come easy for him. He was awkward, bumbling, and chubby if not outright obese in his more slovenly days. But he was charming and in the end was usually able to at least snag a date with any girl he pursued hard enough. Not that he would ever attempt to pursue any girl who was much too far out of his popularity range. You could say he was a pragmatist. Mostly, he couldn't stand rejection. Humiliation made him want to break things.

He lost his virginity in tenth grade to a shy redhead with braces by the name of Kristine. She was a year above him and also a virgin at the time. There had been blood, nearly undetectable from the matching red mass of kinky pubic hair, but the smell of it had set Bob on edge. The blood, that is, not the hair. She had fallen asleep shortly after and Bob had been caught by her ten-year-old sister, Allyson, as he was trying to sneak out of the back door.

Luckily, she had also been caught, a glowing cigarette sticking out from between her second and third fingers, smoke escaping from her parted lips. Lips far too plump and inviting for a girl of such a young, innocent age.

She was much, much prettier than her older sister. And much tighter when Bob had taken her from behind, face pushed against the big tree out back with the falling apart tree house in its branches. There had been scratches left on her cheek afterwards, cutting across her her perfect prepubescent skin like fingernails scraping. When he had reached between them to feel how open she had been around his cock there had been even more blood that with her sister, but no hair. Nothing intrusive to block the flow. The blood had run slick like water across river stones.

Little Allyson had never told anybody about what her big sister's boyfriend did to her because she didn't want anybody to know about the cigarettes. As if being caught smoking was nearly as bad as being coerced into sex with a boy six years her senior. But what did she know, she was ten.

And by thirteen she had been dead. Found hanging in her own bedroom, her own floral bed sheets around her neck.

It was nice when problems fixed themselves.

Bob isn't sure if you would call him a pedophile, necessarily. It isn't that he _dislikes_ sex with women; he just prefers it with children. They're tighter, and they cry more, and the fight less, and they _bleed_ more. Even the boys. There's something endlessly more satisfying about making a boy bleed than a girl. Maybe just the knowledge that they aren't supposed to have something in there, tearing them apart from the inside. With a girl, it is expected. The blood. They need to be broken open, like the membrane of an egg being cracked apart. No matter how careful their first lover is, most girls will bleed. But boys?

If Bob were kinder with the boys, they would have no reason to bleed.

But he has no wish to be kind with them.

Oh, he pulls it off well. The mask of sweetness. At work. Volunteering at the pool in the summer. He sometimes even dresses up around the holidays, eager children in a line like little ducklings, waiting to scrabble onto his jolly lap and shout their demands into his ear.

He has found himself hard with more than one child in his red velvet lap. He has felt their weight on his thighs, their little behinds pressing against his swelling cock, more times than you can count. And they never know. They're wearing corduroys, snowsuits, long sweaters that cover their soft buttocks. They never figure out that Santa is thinking about bending them over the arm of the chair and taking them hard and fast, before the puzzled eyes of the other children and the horrified faces of their mothers. Because Bob isn't an idiot. He does not touch these children. He does not go after the ones in his own small town. The ones that will recognize him. The ones that will point him out when they see him walking through the park or shopping at the supermarket.

After a Saturday of playing Santa at some department store, Bob drives three hours in any direction until he finds a city. And there he finds a child, a boy or a girl, it doesn't matter, and he lures them into his car. Easy smiles, easy laughs. Deception as an art form. They trust him because he's still wearing his Santa uniform and he has a kind voice. The beard helps conceal his face.

The police never find him. He doesn't even bother telling the kids not to say anything, what's the point, they always will? But he is long gone by the time their naked little bodies are found behind whatever dumpster he leaves them, tied and bleeding. And what can they say? 'It was Santa?'

How many of his little cherubs grow up with a fear of the holiday? How many recoil at the sight of the jolly old elf forever after? How many break into tears at the charming tales of Saint Nicholas? Does the chiming of the Salvation Army bells make them freeze in their little rubber boots? Do they lie in bed thinking of Father Christmas, wishing more than anything for the sweet release of death? It doesn't matter, usually, who the child is. As long as they're young and attractive and oh so easily available. He torments himself for hours with the tiny, warm little bodies inside the stuffy stores, beneath the glaring lights, but in the end it doesn't need to be a single one of those children. Just the sweet torture of it all is worth the lousy pay.

Any child will do, when it comes to the actual act.

That is, until _he_ came along.

It wasn't the first time Bob had ever seen this boy. In fact, he has seen him for years around town, an unfortunate creature with an even more unfortunate haircut and a harpy for a mother. And honestly, he is a bit old for Bob's tastes. He usually likes them below the age of ten or so, when they are smaller, more prepubescent. Before there is _hair_.

But something about Will Byers, when he came up to Bob Newby in December of 1983, reeked of a broken soul.

The scent of melancholy hung about him like a heavy perfume. It left Bob feeling heady, salivating, in need of a tight hole to ram himself into. His eyes were like liquid chocolate.

“I'm too old to sit on your lap,” Will had explained in a quiet, dull voice. If a voice can be described with a color his voice was as gray as a dim February morning. Still high, though, not yet cracking. He was much older, still, than the line of kids waiting behind him for their turn to tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas. “I know you're not real, but, well maybe you are?”

“Nobody is too old to sit in Santa's lap,” Bob had replied boisterously, patting his knees. Will had looked extremely uncomfortably but had carefully lowered himself onto Bob's lap anyway. Heavier than most of the other kids, arms and legs lankier. The smell of his despair had wafted through Bob's snowy white mustache. “Now tell me what you want for Christmas.”

“I just, I want to feel safe,” Will had replied, his head turned down, looking at their feet. Will, despite his size in comparison to the rest of the kids, still couldn't reach the ground from this far up. His snow boots dangled precariously in the air, like his future happiness.

“To feel safe?”

“Yeah,” Will agreed, steel monotone. “I just don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't know if you can do anything like that, but I just want to not be afraid.”

Bob wondered what Will had possibly been afraid of. He knew the boy's father, an angry, aggressive man with a habit of slapping around his older son back in the day. Had he done anything like that to his youngest?

Had he perhaps done _worse_?

Something about this boy, this almost-teenager, spoke of corruption. Of innocence lost. Of _penetration_.

Did this boy's father sodomize him? Did that wonderful, fortunate man have the opportunity to breach the tightness of his own lovely son's virgin asshole?

Or maybe it was the boy's brother. The one standing off to the side, looking impatiently at the two of them. Had he ever held his little brother's head between his hands, thrusting his cock down into the boy's throat, as tears and snot ran down his little pixie face?

Bob had jerked off to the idea of ruining the boy for a week. Not trusting himself to approach his mother until a small degree of his lust had cooled. He drove the three hour drive four times that week.

He had to have him

He was a local boy. He never touched locals. He knew not to. He knew what he could lose.

But he had to have him.

It would upset his entire life, his entire future from here on out, but it would be oh so fun.

 

* * *

 

“So I heard you get straight A's, is that right?”

Will shrugs, poking miserable at his peas. His shoulders are narrow, pointed. Fragile. Vulnerable. First dinner with their mom's new boyfriend. What kid wants to deal with that?

Jonathan, the older brother, glares at Bob, as if challenging his presence at the table. Tangible waves of aggression filter off him like some chemical vapor.

So he wants to be the man of the house, huh?

How will we feel when his little brother is taken right out from under him?

How will the teen feel knowing he let the man who ruined his brother for life sit across the table from him, eating his own mother's home cooked meal?

He could do it tonight. He could do it now. The boy is here, close to him, easy to grab and whisk away. Nobody would see it coming.

He could bash Joyce in the head with that lamp over there and stab Jonathan in the thigh with one of the steak knives. Sever muscle and sinew. Make it impossible for him to follow.

He could ruin all three of their lives all in one night.

Bob's fingers tighten around the knife.

He brings it to his plate and saws mechanically through a pork chop. It's overcooked, dry.

“This is so much better than TV dinners,” he compliments, laughing. Joyce smiles, Will mopes, Jonathan glares. Bob is enjoying himself, despite the poverty-ridden atmosphere of everything in this house.

“You don't know how lucky you are to have such a great mom,” Bob says, learning over to pat Will on one of his knobby knees. “You'll miss her some day, mark my word.”

 

* * *

 

“I was a whiz at science, let me see that.”

“I don't need-”

“Nonsense, “ Bob waves off Will's protest. He plops down on the couch next to the boy. His leg is warm against Bob's as his body slides down into the indent made by Bob's large body. He lands against him, hip against hip. “Biology! Perfect! I know more about the human body than anybody you've ever know, I guarantee it.”

“I thought you knew about computers,” Will asks, doubtfully. His little nose wrinkles in confusion, giving him an adorable, flustered look. How is this boy nearly a teenager? Is he part Leprechaun? Something about him is ethereal, unworldly. The boy worries at his lip, wringing his hands.

Bob wonders if that is the look the boy will have on his face the first time Bob reaches for his little cock. What a tiny little penis this boy must have, give his petite size, maybe if Bob lucks out he'll still retain some of his prepubescent features.

Will the boy look at Bob's own leaking prick and marvel at its size?

Will the boy look flustered when Bob grabs him by his firm hips and pulls him down onto his erection? Will he look confused then, wondering where Bob's penis went?

Probably not. He expects, knows from experience, that more shock and terror accompany such an action.

“I'm a man of many talents,” Bob tells him. He looks at the skeleton with the blank spots to fill in the names of the bones. “That is the sternum there. And that's the clavicle. Uh oh, they messed up.”

“Huh?” Will asks. He leans over Bob's lap, smelling like old snow and fresh erasers. Intoxicating. “What do you mean?”

“There's a bone missing,” Bob says matter-of-fact, nodding his head. Will's head brushes against his arm, the hair ruffling. “They definitely forgot one of the most important bones in the body.”

“I don't see any missing,” Will protests, leaning closer. His head now only a foot from the paper in Bob's lap. Twelve inches from his cock.

“Right here,” Bob says, pressing his palm into the middle of the boy's belly. His hand moves, up, down, with the boy's breathing. He's warm, and oh so soft. It would be so easy to plunge his hand into his, to rip open his tender flesh, to pull out the gooey red insides. “They forgot this one.”

“There isn't any bones in the stomach,” Will protests.

“Oh yeah?” Bob challenges. He flips the boy onto his back before he has a moment to react, his fingers digging into sensitive flesh. A harsh, barking laugh spills from the boy's lips. “There it is, it's your funny bone!”

His shrieks could be the shrieks of pain.

 

* * *

 

The wailing has been going on for hours. Well, no, not exactly. Sometimes it is just soft sniffling from the other side of the door. Other times it is snorting sobs.

Joyce lays in bed at Bob's side, her head resting on his chest, her arm over his waist. She feels heavy against him, dead weight.

She was tense for a long time, but her muscles have started to relax now. As drowsiness settles in. Her nightgown, a pink, flimsy thing, is unbecoming of a woman of her age. Bob things of wrapping her son in the pink silk instead, it helps him get through the act.

“Are you sure you shouldn't go be with him?” Bob had asked earlier, somewhat surprised by her seemingly callous attitude towards her young son.

“He needs to grieve alone,” she had answered him, obviously restless. “It's just how he is. I don't know where they get it. Both my sons need alone time when it comes to this stuff.”

Still, when she finally drifts off, Bob slides slowly out of bed. Her head lands silently on the pillow, her breathing still even. Her legs, open, look absurd with the gaudy pink. She looks like a half dressed Barbie doll discarded for a newer model, lying in the corner of a young girl's bedroom.

He knocks a courtesy knock but enters the room without an answer.

“Hey buddy, how you doing?”

Will sits up in bed, trying to control the wobbling of his lower lip. Fighting back tears. His eyes are swollen, his hair mussed.

Fucking adorable. He looks wrecked. Bob supposes six hours of crying can do that to you but Jesus fuck if he isn't getting a hard on just looking at the boy's splotchy face and red eyes.

“I, I don't know,” Will confesses. “I just, I wish I had petted him more.”

“He knows you loved him,” Bob assures. He sits down on the boy's bedside. The entire room has a strange smell to it. Something not usually detectable to the normal human olfactory senses. The scent of misery. “Dogs know that sort of thing. You don't need to tell them like you need to tell people.”

“But I, I'm the one who left my Easter candy where he could get it,” Will warbles. “He only got the bunny because I left it down after Mom told me to put it away.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Bob assures him. He reaches out and ruffles the boy's hair. He's a teenager now, but you wouldn't guess it from the look of him. Right now he looks like a needy little boy. If Bob suggested he suck on his thumb right now, would he do it?

There was a boy that Bob had taken one who did that. A young one, maybe six? He had sucked his thumb afterwards, curled up into a ball in the back of Bob's car, regressing into some infant mode. Appealing, in it's own way, but Bob had already left two loads deep into the boy's intestines and had to choose between either keeping the boy for a few more hours or tossing him aside.

The longer he had a kid, the more likely they were to be missed.

He had left the boy beside some strip joint, his mouth gagged with the cigarette lighter from his car like some horrible ashen pacifier.

Bob holds Will close to him, rubbing his back, admiring the smooth perfection of his skin. His moles, or his beauty marks if you will, give him a unique appearance, but they're so vulnerable. Easy to snag on things, easy to rip.

How easy would it be to burn one off? Could Bob do that with the car cigarette lighter? He'd have to keep stopping to reheat it.

He could just use scissors, but cutting isn't as fun.

Will finally falls asleep late into the night, only hours before the sun rises. Bob waits another hour before sliding his hand down the boy's hip and cupping his butt in his hand. Full, for a boy, almost womanly. You wouldn't think that from the looks of the scrawny thing.

Probably a good thing Bob gave the dog the boy's chocolate rabbit, kid doesn't need to get fat.

 

* * *

 

“Can you show us your computer?” Mike Wheeler asks, speaking over the other three boys in Bob's car. Will is up front, next to him, where he belongs. The others are loaded in the back, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, reeking of sunscreen. A coconut smell that reminds Bob of pina coladas. Their skin is luminescent with oils, like a bunch of greased up sardines in a can. Bob almost feels like rolling in the middle of them like some perverse version of a Slip 'N Slide.

Why do boys have such beautiful skin?

“We can go there right now?” Will suggests, attempting to get out of any outdoors activities. He doesn't do well with them. His allergies have left his eyes pink and runny since the snow melted, and last week he got stung by a bee. He's spent most of the time inside since, lounging around in basketball shorts and reading comic books. The shots are too large, Jonathan's castoffs, but the hang in a way where Bob had spotted more than one perfect outline of a little cock head.

“At my house?” Bob asks, laughing. Like he could have these boys at his house. The walls of his bedroom are plastered with pictures of naked children in various states of pain and ecstasy. The rest of the house is mostly safe but who knows if one of them would accidentally end up in his bedroom.

Or maybe not accidentally. This Mike is pretty cute. Not as cute as Will, not as small, but he's a scrawny little shit who would probably squeal like a stuck pig on Bob's dick.

“Yeah,” the chubby one insists, smiling that creepy smile of his. “Will says your set up is awesome.”

How would the kid even know? He's never been to Bob's house. Unless he legit understands Bob's computer talk which would be pretty impressive for a boy his age.

“Maybe next week,” Bob suggests. “You guys are busy today.”

Next week would be good. He could play ahead. Get all four of them in his car, drug them with some sedative-laced lemonade, and get them across state boarders.

But this Wheeler kid comes from a pretty good family. How long until the cops were out there looking for him?

And how much more conspicuous is a male with four very different looking thirteen year old boys than a lone father and son?

“Here we go guys,” Bob calls out, jovially. He pulls the car up on the side of the road. A bunch of other cars and trucks are already parked ahead, the path to the swimming hole worn down, sandy. “I'll be back to pick you up in four hours. Make sure you put on your sunscreen and eat the sandwiches before the mayo goes bad.”

“Thanks Mr. Newby,” Lucas, the only polite one of the group, thanks him. He closes the door, the last one out, and Bob lingers for a moment, watching the boys leaves.

If he held a gun to the last one's head, would he be able to sustain a hard on? Watching him fuck Will would be a treat but not if he can't follow through.

He doesn't have time to drive three hours in both directions. He drives only an hour and a half, and he finds a boy with white skin and black hair.

It's good to have variety.

Besides, the brunettes with the bowlcuts are always just a disappointment.

He picks the boys up on time and they don't notice the scene of blood and bleach in the backseat.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, hey, it's okay.”

“Please don't tell my mom.”

“I won't tell her anything,” Bob assures.

Will stands in the middle of the room, arms around his waist, shaking. Reeking of shame and the salty musk of boy urine.

When Bob strips the bed, sheets and all, the stench is overpowering. His cock twitches in his pants, nearly unbearable. This game is starting to drag on too much for his liking but he isn't ready. Not yet. He needs to save up a little more and then withdraw the money from the bank before he makes his break for it. He's also still waiting on the two fake ID's from his contact in Chicago.

But this evening? The smell of urine? The humiliation? The crying?

He would have taken the boy now, face down on his own piss-soaked mattress, if the boy's brother was not sleeping across the hallway.

“I'm too old for this,” the boy complains, wiping at his salt-sore face. It looks tender and sore, like little Allyson's had after scraping against the side of the ancient oak tree.

“Everybody messes up sometimes, buddy. Why don't you go get in bed with your brother and let me take care of this before your mom gets home?”

Will nods.

When he leave the room it's with a waddle, the bottom of his PJ bottoms sagging with urine. Yellow. His socked feet are also stained but by the filthy floor, still spotted with dog fur despite the absence of any pets in the house.

Bob presses the piss-soaked cloth to his face and inhales deeply.

His eyelids flutter. He imagines the boy wetting himself the first time Bob holds a knife to his throat. He imagines the urine wet on his thighs as he fucks him, preferably atop his mother's dead body.

Or his brother's.

Jonathan's would probably be more comfortable. That woman is getting lumpy in her old age.

Bob jerks off, wrapping the wettest part of the sheets around his cock, but it grows cold too quickly. Nothing like the tight, hot wetness of a blood-torn boy's rectum.

He's not going to be able to last much longer.

 

* * *

 

Thanksgiving. That's the best option. Thanksgiving is the perfect time for Bob to carry out his plan. Well, Christmas would be better, but he can't wait that long. But Thanksgiving? He can work with Thanksgiving.

Joyce already has a few days scheduled off to spend with the boys. And they're both out of school.

He'll do it the first night. Poison, maybe, or strangling. Something quiet. Not a gunshot or something sharp that would cause them to scream. Something silent and easy.

Then once those two unfortunate bothers are done with he'll take Will and escape into the night. He'll probably have to drug him to keep him quiet. There's something vaguely appealing by the idea of taking the boy in his sleep, boy lax, malleable.

But Bob wants to see the fear in his eyes the first time.

Nobody will know about what had occurred in that filthy little hovel for days. The woman's body will stink by the time they find her. The older boy's pathetic excuse for muscles, something he has been working on diligently the last couple months, will already begin to atrophy.

And Will...he will be with Bob. Beneath him. Crying, fighting, screaming, biting, clawing, flexing, sobbing, bleeding.

But that is a full holiday away. Have to get through Halloween first. Just fake it a few more weeks. A few more weeks of this insufferable woman and her horrible teenage son and then Bob will be enjoying the release inside the sweet young boy's ass. Finally.

Distractedly, Bob grabs something spherical and orange as the door clangs behind him.

“Hey there. Do you happen to have these in any other colors? Not a big fan of orange.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting tidbit: this is the second fic on here named after lyrics from The Only Time by NIN


End file.
